


Touch

by autumdragon



Category: Merlin (TV), Merthur - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blindness, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Magical Realism, Senses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-16
Updated: 2013-02-16
Packaged: 2017-11-29 11:19:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/686368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/autumdragon/pseuds/autumdragon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's not black. Not really. It's more shades of blacks: constant silhouettes floating in and out of his vision. It's all he's ever known. Black. But then he meets Merlin. And he sees colour for the first time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Touch

It’s not black. Not really. 

 

It’s more _shades_ of blacks, constant silhouettes floating in and out of his vision. It’s all he’s ever known. Black. Possible grays and harsh whites. Like his whole life is a 1920’s movie; old and worn out and impossibly dry. And lacking details, completely devoid of vividness and warmth. His surroundings are noted, but usually cast away without second thought. When something catches his attention from the corner of his eye, it’s dismissed because, really, what’s there to see? 

 

When it rains, he sees nothing. The sky is just a darker shade of gray. He can’t see the rain fall. Isn’t quick enough to catch the detail. Instead there’s just a downward fuzz that inhabits his eyesight. Nothing more. No beauty to it. 

 

When it snows, he usually has to look away, because the white and the sun is too bright. And it _hurts._  

 

When the sun shines on the clearest day, nothing is as clandestine as it should be. The day remains a monotonous tone. The leaves don’t cast a translucent green onto his skin. The grass doesn’t shimmer with each gust of wind. The trees don’t glitter as breezes sway them to dance. They just move. 

 

When storms arrive, he’s never quick enough to catch the lightening. He’s never quick enough to catch the “Oh, did you _see_ that?”, never fast enough to gasp in unison at the electricity shooting sparks in the clouds. The cold, dull gray stares him in the face day in and out. It’s nothing miraculous.

 

When autumn rolls forward, crisp and daunting, he can’t “ooh” and “ahh" at the colours of nature’s fireworks. The iridescent oranges, the murderous reds, the sunshine yellows. He remains unfazed.

 

He can hear, though. Spectacularly well. The smile in someone’s voice; for he can never truly make out the smile through his eyes. But their voice appears lighter and it carries in the room. Or the twinge of sadness that suffocates him into playing therapist until it ebbs. And the bitterness of jealousy that renders him angry because if you can see the beauty of everyday, what is there to be jealous about?

 

His mother, he’s been told, had eyes blue like the ocean. And he has her eyes. But… what does that _mean?_ What is _blue?_ Is it an all-consuming colour? Does it shine? Shimmer? Does it twinkle even in the darkest of hours? He doesn’t _know._ So it’s more or less useless, and he tries not to care. 

 

When he wakes up from hearing something that usually no one else can hear, his stomach plummets. Because he can’t turn on a light to see what that noise is. He can’t open his eyes and find the source of the noise to just _stop_ all the anxiety he knows will inevitably come. 

 

He simply waits for the source of the noise to be discovered. Usually a raccoon, or his sister going to the bathroom. And on rare occasions, it’s his father hesitating outside his door for a brief moment. Before he gives up and walks back to his room, thinking to himself “another time….”

 

But that time won’t come. 

 

When someone touches him, the inevitable flinch follows. He’s too sensitive. Like when a cold grips someone and every little touch of something causes an ache. But it’s _constant_ and relentless. A side effect, he supposes, of being _blind._  

 

When his father touches him, he can’t help but grimace because it’s such a rarity and usually so forced. And it physically hurts because he knows just how deprived he is of human touch.  

 

When his friends touch him, he recoils and snarls. Because what the hell do _they_ know? He doesn’t _need_ a hug. Doesn’t _need_ a clap of encouragement on the back. And the absurdity of them thinking he does is astounding. 

 

It’s basically only Morgana he lets touch him, simply because her touches started out as smacks or punches or kicks. So he’s used to her. Expects a good smack or two. It’s almost like a reminder that this isn’t a dream. That the past twenty years of his life really have been spent with an unremovable blindfold. So he lets her continue. Maybe it’s self-deprecative, but he doesn’t really care anymore. 

 

He remembers that time he visited the beach house with his father and Morgana when he was ten. The sun had been warm and had lulled Arthur into a slight state of comatose. He sort of wandered around, feeling the millions of grains of sand, giving under his weight and sliding through his toes. Could feel the intimate touch of the ocean’s kisses, surrounding him, engulfing him. And he had felt so welcomed by the beach that he wandered further into the water until he couldn't see the dull gray outline of the shoreline. Couldn't make out the depths of the water from the view of his house. Couldn't find it. The water’s hugs and caresses had turned into strangulation and menace. It’s fingers pulled and tore at his lungs until he was sinking to the ground, feeling the grains of sand, heavy and compliant under his body. 

 

Only when he felt the upward slope of the ground did he manage to crawl his way back to the solace of air. He had thankfully only been fifteen steps or so from the shore. And he had felt so ridiculously _moronic_ for nearly drowning in six feet of water. _Six feet._ He had heaved and wretched, the sand sticking to him everywhere, pinpricks of shame on his body as he rolled around, trying to catch his breath. 

 

When he came to, he had staggered back to the house and demanded to go home, only to be met with his father’s more than enthusiastic consent and Morgana’s enraged wrath. He had been dealt a blow upside the head by her and as his father inspected the wound, Arthur was rigid and uncomfortable. 

 

They never went to the beach house after that. 

 

When he was thirteen, Arthur had been victimized by some boys at school. When he looks back on it, it seems inevitable that immature children would poke fun at someone different than them. It seems like a natural response to most things. But at the time, Arthur had never felt so alone. He had traced his fingers along the concrete walls, feeling every dent, every abandoned gum piece. And had found his way into the bathroom, where he ran his hands up and down the stalls, disregarding the fact that toilets are _filthy_ , just because he needed to feel something. To remind himself that he is not a _freak._ No matter what anyone else says. 

 

When he was fifteen, he touched Morgana’s face for the first time. Felt the outlines and contours and dimples. Traced the soft curve of her lips, brushed his thumbs over the fine hairs of her eyebrows, and barely outlined her eyelids, gentle as a fluttering butterfly. He had asked her, shyly and almost gruffly. Just to _know_ what the typical face was supposed to look like. The jutting nose, hollowed out cheekbones… what was supposed to be _normal._ What was supposed to be _human._ She felt wonderful, and the picture he managed to sketch in his mind made the tips of his lips soften and lift. “You’re beautiful…” he had murmured. And his fingers twitched back as tears rolled onto his skin, surprising him. 

 

When he was eighteen, freshly graduated, he held someone’s hand for the first time. He stood, proud and tall, his eyes still open and filled with defiance as his father yelled. Arthur’s choice was firm and still standing. He would not follow his father’s footsteps in business. He would study English Literature and live on campus. And his sensitive hearing picked up on the disappointment, the anger, the regret, the _rage_ and the complete heart breaking _where did I go wrong?_ in his father’s shouts. Morgana remained with him, and when their father spat out the first obscenity, her hand slipped into Arthur’s and squeezed. He felt reassured and it was that simple gesture of comfort and support that got him through the two months of silence. 

 

His life isn’t an easy one. Filled with shadows and whispers of colours. Filled with expectations he refuses to meet and instead meets punishment. Filled with blow after blow of low self worth being shoved unwillingly in his face. He feels vulnerable at times, but he masks it with arrogance because no one - _no one_ \- will touch him like that. No one will make him feel inferior. 

 

But he’s at uni now, and Morgana isn’t there to touch him. She can’t be there because she’s in Paris, studying fashion just like they both knew she would. And he’s so proud that before they left, he placed his hands on her face and felt her smile. Felt it. Heard it. Sensed it. 

 

He makes his classes with ease, manages to feel his way to a coffee pub and relax. He feels the looks people give him. Either out of sympathy or wonderment. He doesn’t pay attention. He’s here to learn and prove his father wrong. When asked about it by some of his new friends, his explanation is vague and holds undertones of “just drop it.” He won’t really talk about it, because there’s nothing to say. There’s nothing for them to see except shadows and gray tones. And he refuses to share that with anyone. 

 

 

But then he meets Merlin. In his third year of uni, there’s Merlin. And he’s different. Not just his personality, which is ever persistent and annoying and just so bloody _cheerful_. But how he looks. There’s no gray with Merlin. He sees _colour_ , for the first time. They’re muffled, barely there, but he sees it. And when he sets his sights on Merlin, tears blur his new found vision and he has to stop to catch his breath. He sees _blue._ And it’s beautiful. Deep and shining, just as he had hoped it would be. The blue that is never ending in Merlin’s eyes.The blue that causes Arthur’s chest to twist painfully and wonderfully. Merlin’s skin is pale and his cheekbones are so easy to decipher. He wears a shirt that is _red._ It’s bloody fucking _red,_ and it’s both haunting and gorgeous. Rich and thick and so wonderfully _red._  

 

When he and Merlin become friends, they go out to a pub. And when they leave the campus grounds, it’s snowing. He’s not excited, like Merlin is, and he chooses to bring his eyes to the road as they walk because the brightness still hurts his eyes. But when he hears Merlin’s light laughter, he looks at him and stops dead in his tracks. Because, like a halo, Merlin is surrounded and covered in the snow and he can _see._ He can see how fluffy and ravishingly _white_ they are. But not the fuzzy white he’s accustomed to. No - it’s pristine and glorious and so pure. And Arthur makes a noise, probably a strangled “stop”, but he can’t remember. And when Merlin freezes, Arthur steps closer and reaches his hand up. His fingers splay against Merlin’s coat and he touches a snow flake. Brings it closer to his eyes and observes it. How detailed and unique and breath taking it is. A choked laugh escapes his mouth and soon he’s crying with so much happiness he’s hysterical. He finds himself buried in Merlin’s jacket, clinging desperately as he’s hushed. His cries echo and ebb into oblivion, surrounding them and taking off into the future of brightness to come. 

 

Weeks later, Arthur and Merlin are on Arthur’s bed, studying for an exam. Laughing and joking, Merlin places a hand on Arthur’s shoulder to brace himself, stop himself from keeling over from the mirthful pain in his stomach. And Arthur freezes because, yes, Merlin’s touched him many times (despite Arthur’s protests and recoils at first), but this is different. He knows Merlin senses his hesitance, because they both fall silent. Arthur has spoken little about his home life, but enough to know that Merlin understands his problem with touch and intimacy. Merlin doesn’t really care, though. Still calls Arthur a prat, still laughs at his rudeness, still pokes and guides and _touches_ him. And Arthur lets him. 

 

But this is a different touch. A touch he’s never really felt. It holds subtext of sorts. As if saying, “let me touch you.” and “don’t stop.” and “please.” 

 

Arthur looks at him, and can see the muted colours bouncing off Merlin. The blackness of his hair, the paleness of his skin, the deep blue of his eyes, the _pink_ of his lips. But it’s still cloaked and Arthur finds he is both overwhelmed by the colours _and_ lusting after them. So much that it’s unfair and too painful. Arthur turns away, rolls off his bed and places his hands on his window sill, trying to breathe. 

 

He can hear Merlin shifting, uncomfortable and unsure. Slowly Merlin gets up and walks up to Arthur’s turned body. 

 

“Arthur?” he whispers. He places his hands on Arthur’s shoulders, ignores the fact that he causes a flinch, and pulls him around.

 

Arthur takes in steady breaths, his eyes closed. He hesitates before he opens his mouth, and when he speaks he almost wretches because he sounds so _small_ and helpless. “Can… can I touch you?”

 

Merlin’s hands squeeze his shoulders. He whispers, “Yeah…”

 

Jagged and hesitant, Arthur’s hands rise to Merlin’s face, before he flattens his palms over both cheeks.

 

He smooths his hands down Merlin’s face, feeling the deep divot of his cheekbones. His fingertips run over his forehead: smooth and milky. Arthur closes his eyes so he can paint the picture of Merlin more clearly. He doesn’t sketch it, like he did Morgana, he paints it. Colours it in, every detail, every pore, every line, every shade. His thumbs trace Merlin’s eyebrows and gently skate down his closed eyes. He makes his way passed Merlin‘s temples and feels the ridiculously protruding ears and chuckles a little. He feels Merlin’s breath hitch. 

 

He returns to Merlin’s face, runs his index fingers around the outline of Merlin’s nostrils and feels the bump on his nose. Then his hands slide down Merlin’s cheeks once more and his grin flickers as his stomach twists pleasantly. He can feel the scruff of Merlin’s beard; they’ve been studying for over ten hours and the five o’clock shadow has no doubt begun to form. And then, with the briefest of hesitations, Arthur cups Merlin’s face and runs his thumb over his bottom lip. He feels them part and soon a ghosting breath tickles his fingers. 

 

Arthur’s smile grows and he finally opens his eyes. Can see Merlin even more clearly now. “You…”

 

His fingers still on his lips, he feels more than hears Merlin say, “… What?”

 

Arthur drops one hand and curls the other around Merlin’s neck. “You’re…” and he tries to taste the word before it leaves his mouth for he’s at risk of making himself look like an _idiot._ Magnificent. Exquisite. A paragon of beauty. Gorgeous. “Perfect…” he breathes. 

 

He looks into Merlin’s eyes and can see that the blue has clouded over. Merlin releases a sob and a laugh, and Arthur can't help but smile back at him. And slowly, gently and ever so tenderly, they meet in the middle and softly press their lips together. 

 

And he closes his eyes because he doesn’t need to see anything to know that this is _right._    

   

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading!


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